Eat, Sherlock
by Pasta Martini
Summary: WARNING: eating disorder, self harm   Sherlock doesn't seem to have time for food anymore, but can John figure out what's really wrong with the detective? slash.
1. Chapter 1

It was a rather cold, dreary day; nothing really surprising for London.

The morning at 221b Baker Street started out not being very surprising either. John got up and made tea for himself and coffee for Sherlock, who was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at John's laptop for whatever reason. The doctor didn't even bother asking why Sherlock couldn't just get up and get his own damn computer anymore; it was more than a lost cause.

There hadn't been an interesting case in awhile, and John could tell that it was putting Sherlock on the edge. He was much more jumpy than usual, and quite a bit more emotional. By that, John meant that he was prone to digging through everything in the flat to find his hidden cigarettes, or exploding into hysterical laughter at something that really wasn't to be laughed at on the telly. John did his best to try to distract him, but without a case that would get his brain spinning, there was nothing to help.

As he was handing the coffee to the detective, he noticed a slight trembling in the younger man's hand as he reached out for it, never taking his eyes off the screen. John knew it could just be from his lack of nicotine, but he thought he would ask, anyway.

"Sherlock?" John inquired, holding the coffee away from the outstretched hand, trying to get the man to look at him.

Sherlock's gaze tore away from the computer and looked up at John. "Yes?"

John pressed his lips together, his eyebrows furrowing. Well, Sherlock's voice didn't seem to be any different. But John was still stumped as to why he was shaking. It wasn't very cold inside the flat, although he knew the detective got cold easily thanks to his weight, or lack thereof.

Suddenly, it clicked in his mind. "Sherlock, when's the last time you ate?" He asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowing.

Sherlock huffed impatiently, trying to grasp the coffee that the doctor was still holding. "Well, yesterday morning, when you rudely shoved a piece of toast down my throat." He finally grabbed the cup of hot liquid and smirked in triumph as he inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of the drink.

"I didn't 'shove it down your throat'! You need energy, Sherlock. You can't go that long without food. Look, you're shaking," John said exasperatedly, running a hand through his sandy hair.

Sherlock looked down at his hands at the doctor's request and noticed that he was indeed shaking. "I don't need food, John. I'm fine."

John wasn't about to let this go, so he stormed off into the kitchen, throwing open the drawer where the bread was kept and slamming two pieces into the toaster. "You're going to eat!" he shouted from the kitchen, wanting the detective to know that he wasn't kidding.

The man sitting on the couch said nothing, but he bit the inside of his cheek in despair. John was going to make him eat _yet again_, and he really wasn't sure what the outcome would be this time. Yesterday he accepted the food gracefully, although they did argue for a moment before Sherlock took a large bite out of the bread to get the doctor to shut up. And that was that; the rest of the day was spent pacing around the flat while John read and blogged, with John asking him what exactly he was pacing about. But it isn't like he could tell him. It isn't like John would understand the need to get all those disgusting calories away so that he could focus on his work once more.

When John returned from the kitchen, he was holding a small plate with two pieces of toast, lightly covered with butter and some type of jam; probably blackberry by the looks of it, and since that was the only kind Sherlock could stand choking down, he doubted it was anything else.

The doctor slid the computer out of Sherlock's lap with one hand and deposited the plate onto his lap with other. Sherlock let out a sigh of annoyance and looked up at John.

"Is this really necessary?" He said, not letting the panic he was feeling show in his eyes. There was no way he was going to be able to get out of eating this; he could tell by how John was standing over him with his arms crossed, in a very military-like stance, which usually meant he was ready to put up a fight.

"Yes, it's necessary! I'm not moving until you eat it, Sherlock," John growled, narrowing his eyes at the man sitting in front of him.

Sherlock exhaled noisily and picked up a piece of toast, trying to control the shaking in his hand. He took a small bite and chewed for a moment, thinking about spitting it at John, when suddenly the doctor's phone went off.

John immediately answered, knowing that there were only two people who would call so early in the morning, and one of them was in the same room as him. "Harry, hi. What's up?"

He wandered around the room, chatting with his sister while keeping an eye on Sherlock, watching him slowly eat the toast. Sherlock rolled his eyes at seeing John keeping an eye on him, but still continued to eat. "Yes, yes, Harry, you've already told me. And I thought we were going out tomorrow and not today? But…right now? Well no, I'm not busy, but…Oh alright fine, see you in five."

John snapped his phone shut and sighed, looking over at his flatmate tiredly. "Sherlock, Harry wants to meet with me to discuss something about her...problem, so I'll be back in about an hour or so. Please finish that toast and don't blow anything up!" John quickly tugged on his coat and with a slight wave to the detective, he was out the door.

Well.

Sherlock immediately spit the piece of toast he had been chewing onto the plate in his lap and frantically looked at was left in front of him. He had consumed at least one of the pieces and a fourth of the other, and that simply would not do for him.

He stood up and briskly went into the kitchen, dumping what was left on his plate into the trash and, after throwing the crumb covered plate into the sink, he ran to his room, heading to his bathroom.

Once in, he slammed the door shut behind him and threw himself onto his knees in front of the toilet. '_Get out, get out, get out,'_' Sherlock thought as he shoved his fingers into his mouth, searching for his gag reflex. And then, finally, the toast was in front of him again. The soggy mess looked rather gross, but being a consulting detective, obviously he had seen much worse. He sighed in relief. It was out of his body. Gone. He was perfect, clean once more. Nothing to distract him if a task came up, and it would come up, it always did.

Sherlock leaned heavily back against the wall, feeling the energy drain away from him. He coughed once, feeling his throat burn from what just occurred, and then he was out like a light, his head hitting the wall that he was leaning on rather sharply.

Less than an hour later, John came bounding back into the flat, shrugging off his coat and throwing it on the arm of the couch. He noticed that Sherlock wasn't where he had been when he left, which wasn't unusual. But he was curious as to where the detective was, since he didn't hear anything from the kitchen. So that meant that he wasn't working on some experiment.

John looked towards Sherlock's room, and was surprised to see that the door was open. Sherlock was somewhat very private when it came to his room, and he almost always kept the door closed if he was in it.

The doctor slowly walked towards Sherlock's room, and paused in the doorway.

The detective wasn't in his room.

John frowned, and entered, walking around to the other side of the bed to make sure that Sherlock wasn't in between the bed and the wall. It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had slipped between there in his sleep after passing out from pure exhaustion due to a case.

But where was he? He wouldn't have gone out without telling his flatmate first. Well, he would, but John had already seen his coat by the door when he came in, and Sherlock definitely wouldn't have left _that_ behind.

Then, John's eyes locked onto the bathroom door.

The shower wasn't on. The water wasn't running. There was no sound coming from there. But..the light was on under the door.

John cautiously moved to the door, and gently put his hand on the knob. "Sherlock?" he said, rather loudly. He wanted to give the man time to respond in case he was in there doing…well, whatever.

There was a stir in the room, the light shifting under the door. "John..?" came the soft response. The detective's voice sounded rather scratchy, as if he had just woken up. Had he fallen asleep in the bathroom? Again, wouldn't be the first time.

John stifled a laugh at the thought of that and asked, "Sherlock, is it alright if I come in?"

More movement. "What…?"

The doctor turned the knob. "I'm coming in."

"NO! No, no, no, STAY OUT!" The man inside began shrieking, and John felt pressure against the door, as if Sherlock was trying to block it to keep him from getting in.

"Sherlock! What in th-," John pushed against the door and it opened a crack. The detective couldn't win against his army training strength, which they both knew, but Sherlock was trying anyway.

"John, please, please. Don't come in here!" The voice begged.

John bit his lip, and pushed harder, the door opened about a foot. His worry mounting, he knew something must be very wrong if Sherlock was getting this desperate about not wanting him to come in. He had never heard Sherlock this riled up unless he was acting.

Suddenly, the weight was gone and the door swung open all the way. "Sherlock, what are you doing in here that it so important for me not t-," the doctor's words were cut off by what he saw in front of him. Sherlock. Standing there looking helpless. The toilet. Filled with…vomit?

John looked concerned, his hand immediately going to Sherlock's forehead to check his temperature. An inaccurate method, but good enough. "Sherlock, are you feeling alright? You got sick!"

Sherlock nodded dumbly, rubbing a hand over his face, and that's when the doctor noticed that his finger on his hand looked rather dried with something that resembled saliva. Interesting.

_Oh. _

"Sherlock," the doctor said softly, "did you make yourself sick?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's heart was pounding in his chest as the doctor's question echoed through his mind, but he made sure that his face was impassive. He had to think of something, some excuse as to how John was wrong and then call him an idiot so everything would go back to how it normally is.

But…he just couldn't.

This was John. His John. His ever constant, reliable John, who would kill a man for Sherlock, who always made sure he wasn't overworking himself, which was rather annoying at times but all the same endearing. Could he lie to John? It would be easy enough to do, but it just wasn't an option. Something about him just made him be truthful, and Sherlock resented it.

He stood there for a moment, frozen to the spot, and then he opened his mouth and whispered, "Yes."

He wasn't even entirely sure that John heard it, but within seconds, the doctor's arms were wrapped around Sherlock, hugging him tightly. The detective stiffened at the touch, but didn't move away. He was too busy thinking of all the things that that simple word entailed. What would John do? Would John just hug him and be done with it? No, that didn't seem like John at all; he was far too caring to just let the situation go.

Sherlock jerked suddenly as he realized what was most likely going to occur.

_John would put him in a recovery facility. _He had done it to Harry once, hadn't he? He would do the same to Sherlock.

No. Certainly not. There was absolutely no way that he was going to be hospitalized. He hated everything about hospitals, and he really didn't want everyone to find out about his little issue. Especially Mycroft, what kind of smug expression would he have if he knew that Sherlock was far more unstable than he originally thought? He needed a good reason for John not to do this, but it couldn't be the true reason. No. He couldn't let John find out what really caused this whole eating thing. Granted, he didn't lie to John that he did it, but for the sake of his own image, he couldn't tell the truth about why.

The detective felt his throat close up and he immediately began to struggle in John's arms, although it was a bit useless since he was so weak from his lack of nutrition.

"John," he said, becoming desperate again but keeping his voice quite level, saying the first thing that popped into his clever mind, "listen to me. You cannot put me in a facility. I need my work to survive. I need it. And I can't do anything if you tie me to a bloody hospital bed and feed me through a tube for the rest of my life. I…you…"

Ah. If John did something to interfere, then it would ruin Sherlock's work. And everyone knew how important his work was, especially the doctor. Good one, Sherlock!

He finally broke the ex-soldier's grip and pushed past him into his bedroom, collapsing on his bed and laying there, staring up at the ceiling in complete silence.

John stood there for a moment, rather surprised, and then he walked out of the bathroom and came to stand near Sherlock's bed. "Sherlock," he said, quietly.

The consulting detective glance up at him, then looked away, pressing his lips together. He knew what was coming, or so he thought.

John sat down on the bed beside Sherlock and grimaced as he felt a slight pain in his shoulder. "Sherlock, I'm not going to do any of that. I never said I was going to take you away from your work. I'm not going to put you in a hospital. I mean, why would I do that? I'm a doctor, after all. Why would I send you off to them, when I'm right here?"

Sherlock's gaze met the doctor's, his body still tense. "Are you lying?" he asked, tersely, his eyes searching John's for a hint.

"Of course not, you berk. I know what your work means to you, but Sherlock, _you've got to eat. _It's essential to living. And God knows that I don't want to come home one day and find you dead laying in what was an experiment of yours because you skipped one too many meals," John told him, sternly looking down at the younger man.

The words _'you've got to eat' _rang out in Sherlock's mind, and he almost started laughing insanely, but yet again, he remained calm. Like always.

The doctor frowned at him slightly and then said, "Will you please eat something again? If not toast, then…yogurt, maybe? It'd probably be easier on your throat after.." John trailed off, not really wanting to finish the sentence.

Sherlock looked at his flatmate closely, thinking how awkward it must be for him to be dealing with all this. But Sherlock didn't say anything, he just nodded slowly, letting dread fill him at the thought of eating again.

Oh how he hated it. Everything about it was disgusting. The chewing, the smell of food, the annoyingly large amount of time it takes out of perfectly good work time, the messiness, everything. He didn't see how people really enjoyed food. It seemed impossible to like such a thing.

But, Sherlock thought, he hated refusing John even more. Everything the doctor told him to do, he basically, well, did. Why, though? He wasn't quite sure. He never listened to anyone else. He never did what anyone told him to do. But John was just so _different. _He was nice and kind and was always so patient with Sherlock and always made him coffee and actually understood him. No one else had ever bothered trying. Except John.

A warm feeling settled in Sherlock, and he relaxed on his bed, closing his eyes to go back to when he had the doctor's strong arms wrapped around him. Even though he was very tense, it wasn't like he didn't enjoy it. But he knew it was only a hug of comfort. Of caring. Nothing more.

Sherlock opened his eyes at the sound of John approaching, and suddenly the anxiety was back. John was carrying a carton of yogurt and a spoon, but instead of having a stern look etched onto his face like this morning, it was a soft look that Sherlock hadn't really ever seen before.

"Alright, here we go," John said, handing the yogurt over to the detective after he had sat up.

Sherlock frowned down at the yogurt, "What kind is it?" Not that it really mattered. It wasn't the kind that made it unappealing. It was the texture and the look and the smell and the everything.

John looked at him sheepishly before saying, "Well, it was plain, but I thought that that was a bit boring for you, so I added some brown sugar."

Sherlock smiled slightly in spite of himself. Only John would ever worry about his food being too boring.

He dipped the spoon into the yogurt, getting a decent amount, and then brought it to his mouth, slowly licking the substance off of the spoon.

Sherlock immediately noticed that John was looking at his mouth, looking at how he licked the yogurt off instead of just slurping it off like a normal person. _Licking._ Oh. Sherlock could almost feel the heat rising to his face, but he showed no sign of being flushed.

"I'll, um…be making tea, if you need me," John said, exiting the room rather quickly, but not before Sherlock noticed how red his ears were.

Well. This is rather interesting.

Sherlock sat up even straighter as an idea popped in his head.

"I do believe," he said, unconsciously outloud, "that it's time for an experiment."

"What was that?" he heard John call from the kitchen.

Sherlock didn't respond. He sat there, spooning more of the disgusting yogurt into his mouth, plotting.


	3. Chapter 3

Surprisingly, Sherlock kept the yogurt down, which John observed with satisfaction, and he didn't seem extremely upset about it either. He honestly didn't know what to make of his flat mate's issue, but he was going to support him no matter what. That's what he was there for, wasn't it? To help Sherlock, to stay by his side? Or maybe it was just to pay the rent. No matter.

Now, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, across from John, staring at him intently. John was pretty much used to the detective trying to read him, but he usually he knew what he was looking for. This time, he didn't.

"Is there something you're trying to deduce from me?" John asked, raising an eyebrow at his friend. "Because I have no idea why you're staring at me."

Sherlock didn't speak, but continued staring, taking in the way John was sitting angled towards him, how curious John was to know exactly what he was thinking, how John is always on his side, how John never doubts him, how John compliments him whenever he deduces something, how happy John looks when he's running beside him during a chase, how lovely John's eyes look in the candlelight when he's sitting across from him at Angelo's..

Wait a minute.

How _lovely_..?

Sherlock almost jumped out of his chair at the realization that he just thought that. About _John._ His best friend.

_Best friend._

"Oh my," Sherlock muttered, raking his hands through his hair and tearing his gaze away from the man in the other chair. Why did he just think that? I mean, it was true though, wasn't it? His eyes did look rather lovely in candlelight. Doesn't everyone's?

But the detective knew why he thought it. He just didn't want to come to terms with it quite yet.

John was still watching Sherlock, and he knew by now that his friend hadn't heard his earlier question. He knew that deducing look on his face, the one where it was pointless to ask him anything, so he sat there, trying to figure out for himself what Sherlock had found so interesting in him.

Maybe he was trying to think of a way to thank him for earlier this morning? No, that wouldn't take this much thought; it would just be a kind of reluctant pause. So John could mark that off the list. Okay, hm, let's see, it coul-

"John."

The ex-army doctor's eyes flew to Sherlock's at the sound of his name. The detective was sitting forward in his chair, fingers pressed against his lips, his eyes narrowed.

"Yes?"

There was a long pause, and then, "Who're you dating currently?"

John raised an eyebrow. Who was he dating? Why did that even matter to his flat mate? "Sherlock, you know I'm not seeing anyone. I had to end it with Sarah since I always had to be running off somewhere with you. Not that I mind really, I enjoy your company quite a bit more."

The consulting detective had to force himself not to twitch at this last statement. John liked being with him? Not like that was new, but more than Sarah? Even though she was boring, but obviously John was unconsciously complimenting him, and Sherlock wasn't going to let that go unnoticed.

"You enjoy my company. Why?" he asked. He noticed when John bit his lip, and knew that he was probably scolding himself internally for not knowing that saying that would bring up such a question as this one.

"Because. You're…extraordinary," John said softly, refusing to meet his best friend's eyes.

Sherlock wondered for a brief moment if he was just saying that because no one else ever had. But no, the doctor seemed so nervous now. He genuinely thought that, but he was wondering how Sherlock would take it.

"Well, I'd be nothing without my blogger," he responded honestly, not being able to hide the corners of his mouth turning upward slightly. John immediately turned pink at this, which made Sherlock full out grin.

What were they doing, anyway? Was this what everyone called flirting? Complimenting each other? Sherlock was quite underdeveloped in the area of relationships, so he didn't really have a clue as to what was happening. All he knew was that he couldn't do this. He couldn't mess with John like this, like he knew he was going to earlier today. Experiment on him. No, no. Not his best friend. His…John.

But how in the world was he supposed to figure out if John was attracted to him if he didn't experiment?

Why did he even care if John was attracted to him? Sherlock was attracted to John. For God's sake, he just thought about the man's eyes being beautiful in bloody candlelight! But why was he so concerned about his flat mate returning the feelings? Sherlock knew it was because he had never been rejected before, even if there was no relationships in the past to get rejected from. His only experiences with having to be attracted to someone came from cases, and obviously no one had never turned him down then since he wasn't being his normal high-functioning sociopath self.

John sighed quietly and looked at Sherlock, "What're you thinking?"

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath and then spoke, "I think that…that I'm attracted to you. And I don't quite know exactly what do with this..affection."

He cringed at the word, but kept his eyes on the man across from him, waiting for the reaction that he was dreading. John getting up and walking out, John thinking he wasn't serious, John being angry, John being disgusted…the possibilities of bad outcomes were endless.

But, none of those reactions came.

In fact, Sherlock's statement was met with silence.

The younger man frantically searched John's face with his eyes, trying to deduce what he was thinking. "John?"

He really hoped that the doctor had heard him and that he wouldn't have to repeat the embarrassing statement he had just uttered.

Suddenly, John began to laugh.

It wasn't loud; it was more like a chuckle, but he was laughing.

"Oh alright, Sherlock, you got me good this time. Good one, good one," his flat mate claimed, getting up out of his chair. He went over and grabbed his coat from it's place by the door and said, "I'm off to get some more jam, alright? See you in a bit."

And then, John simply walked out the door, still chuckling.

It took Sherlock several minutes to realize what exactly just happened.

He had told John that he had feelings for him. Yes, that definitely happened. And then…what?

_John thought he was joking._

Sherlock felt absolutely sick to his stomach. Of course John thought he was kidding; Sherlock had never been one to show or talk about emotions, so why would his friend think that he had decided to start now?

The consulting detective was also feeling slightly…rejected, just like he feared he would be. No, not slightly. _Immensely rejected._

His heart was pounding, and his ever-racing mind seemed to be going thrice as fast as normal. He was replaying the scene over and over in his head, but he had to get his mind off of it somehow.

He slowly got out of his chair and walked into his room, firmly shutting the door behind him but not bothering to lock it. Sherlock kicked a shirt that was laying in his floor out of the way and then laid down on his rug. He then brought his arms up behind his head and bent his legs to where his knees were several inches off the ground.

Ah, crunches. How he had missed them.

He was quite sure that doing a few hundred of them would get his mind off of what had just occurred.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Well, here we are again! Sorry, sorry, sorry for updating like a turtle. I will try to update more, I sweeaaar**!

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><p>When John re-entered the flat, arms full of grocery bags, he had forgotten all about Sherlock's little joke earlier. He truly hadn't thought anything of it in the first place, but there was something about the way Sherlock had been looking at him that made him hesitate for just a moment. Yeah, his heart did lurch when Sherlock said it, but he waved it off as him trying to be funny and maybe practicing his lies for a case sometime.<p>

Yet…

When Sherlock was kidding around with him, which wasn't very often actually, he always had this sort of…twinkle in his eye. And it wasn't there this time.

Shaking his head, he went back to being concerned with getting the grocery's onto the counter in the kitchen before another experiment was set up on the recently cleared space. John slowly made his way into the kitchen, careful not to drop anything, and wondered where his flat mate was. He gently placed the bags onto the counter, and was just about to set to putting everything in there proper place, when he heard a quiet murmuring noise coming from down the hall.

John raised an eyebrow and stopped his movements, curious as to what Sherlock seemed to be chanting from his room. It sounded like…he was counting?

The doctor inched his way down the hall, careful to not let Sherlock hear him. The closer he got to the door, the more concerned he became.

"435...436...4_37.."_

He could hear the strain in the detective's voice, the deep baritone quivering after uttering the last digit.

What was he doing?

Slowly, trying to not draw attention to himself, John eased the door open to peak in at his friend.

There was Sherlock, lying in the floor, his shirt off, but his loose trousers and dressing robe still on.

And he was doing crunches.

And, although John wasn't as quick to make deductions as fast as the man in the floor, he had apparently done over four-hundred of them.

John was slightly mesmerized at seeing Sherlock's bare chest, and slightly horrified because of how his ribs stuck out so much that it was like they were going to break the skin_. _He was at a loss of what to do, so he did the only thing he could think of. Get his attention.

"Sherlock," John said softly, swinging the door open all the way and stepping partially into the room.

The detectives eyes, which had been squeezed shut in his efforts, snapped open and met John's.

John was expecting an outburst like earlier. He was expecting shouting, maybe his flat mate throwing something, but no.

All Sherlock did was let his legs slide down from their slightly raised position and just continued to look at John. Sherlock's chest was rising and falling quickly, and he was beginning to tremble from the pain that was running through his entire body. He let his eyes fall shut and they both stayed exactly where they were for a few moments before Sherlock, weakness apparent in his voice, said, "Although I would love to get up, it seems that my body does not agree."

The army doctor started into motion at that, and briskly made his way over to Sherlock, pulling him up with little effort. It astonished him at just how light the detective really was, which made him worry even more.

He carefully helped Sherlock onto the bed and sat down beside him, making sure his eyes never strayed to the flat expanse of his friend's marble white chest. Sherlock was breathing heavily and pressing his lips together as if he was waiting for John to scold him.

In all honesty, John had absolutely no idea what to do. Sure, he knew that excessive exercise could be a part of eating disorders, but he wasn't sure what caused his flat mate to decide to do hundreds of crunches.

Seeing as that seemed like a good place to start talking through this, John asked, "So. Why were you doing that?" He knew he would have to tread around this carefully, like a lot of things with Sherlock, but this was something he literally had no experience dealing with.

John watched Sherlock as he slowly opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, most likely thinking of a lie.

Then the detective let out a long sigh and muttered, "Which answer would you prefer? The one where I tell you that I'm working on my six-pack, which we both know is of little importance to me, or the one where I tell you that I'm doing this because I cannot even begin to fathom my…my _emotions_ towards you at the moment?" Sherlock's hand shot out toward the floor beside his bed, grabbing his t-shirt that he had stripped off earlier and hastily putting it back on, ignoring the way his own body was screaming at him to stop moving.

John blinked in surprise at the venom in Sherlock's voice and the abrupt way he was moving. What in the world was his problem and why was he mad at John? He furrowed his brow and thought for a moment. It had to be something that had happened today, but the only thing that had happened between them so far was Sherlock's little joke.

Was that was he was upset about?

"Oh for God's sake, John, you're being incredibly slower than usual today," Sherlock snapped, narrowing his eyes in his flat mate's direction but still not quite looking at him.

The good doctor frowned and rolled his eyes. Only Sherlock would take a few moments of thought as being 'slow'. "I really don't see why you try to get me to figure things out for myself when you seem to love showing off and explaining everything for me most of the time, Sherlock. What did I do to make you upset?"

Sherlock sighed, clearly exasperated that he had to explain something that was just _so _obvious. "Earlier when you and I were in the living room and I confessed something, you simply laughed and left, thinking that I was attempting to be humorous. Unfortunately…I was..not trying to make a joke, John." Here the detective swallowed as he tried to force out the words that seemed to be stuck in his throat. "I was trying to tell you that I honestly am attracted to you. I do not know what I should do with this information, but obviously after telling you, it is clear that I should take no action since you seem to not return my feelings." The words seemed uncertain, and Sherlock's expression was one of that like a kicked puppy.

John's head was spinning. Sherlock's rather formal explanation was kind of confusing, but he was pretty sure he got the point that the brilliant man was trying to get across. The detective thought he was attractive? The world's only consulting detective thought that the ordinary Doctor Watson was _attractive_? John didn't know what kind of dream this was, but it was certainly one where he didn't know whether to wake up or keep pushing through it.

He opened his mouth to respond, maybe to ask Sherlock to repeat what he had just said, but he shut it quickly. There was no mistaking it. He wasn't sleeping. He was wide awake, and his best friend, fancied him.

Sherlock was watching him. The man had schooled his face into one of complete disregard, as if whatever John would say next wouldn't bother him, but John knew him better than that. He knew he had to choose his word's carefully in order not to upset him.

He sighed, rubbing at his eyes, and said, "Okay. So, you fancy me. Well, ta, Sherlock. You complete tosser, do you think I would still be here after all this time if I didn't, you know, also find you utterly memorizing?"

So maybe those weren't the exact words he wanted to use, because feeding the detective's ego was sometimes a very bad idea, but Sherlock seemed to be stunned.

"I…you…what?" Sherlock floundered helplessly.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I can never apologize enough for how damn slow I am at updating! Sorry sorry sorry! Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>Sherlock was dumbfounded. And he was more than certain that he had never been that before in his entire life before then. His ever racing mind was silent. <em>Silent<em>. All he could do was stare at John, who was looking at him with quite a bit of concern.

But…how could he not have _seen_?

How did he not realize that all this time, John has been by his side because he was absolutely infatuated with him? It didn't make sense.

He was frantically searching through the room dedicated to everything John related in his mind palace, looking for a clue, something, that would let him know exactly when John had started to have these feelings and exactly what Sherlock had done to deserve it.

Because he knew, of course, that he didn't deserve this from John. John deserved the world on a silver platter. He deserved a stable, sane person to spend his time with until the end of his days. He deserved affection, he deserved happiness, he deserved…anything but what Sherlock could give him.

There had to be a solution. Sherlock could never go on without John, he knew that as well as he knew that there are 243 types of tobacco ash. There wasn't anyone else in the world who could put up with Sherlock. It had to be John.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Sherlock turned his head slightly and John's face swam into his vision, leaning over him.

"I said, 'Are you alright?'" John questioned, his forehead crinkling with worry.

Sherlock blinked up at him and opened his mouth to respond, but closed it abruptly. Was he alright? He didn't know. But, knowing that it would make John feel better, he nodded his head in affirmation.

John's shoulders lost some of their tension and the doctor breathed out a sigh. "Thank God, I thought you had lost it on me for a second. Of course, wouldn't be the first time I've thought that." John smiled at him slightly, and Sherlock could feel himself relax at the sight of it.

He took a deep breath.

"John."

"Yes?"

He felt the hand that was still on his shoulder squeeze lightly, encouraging him to go on, and he closed his eyes. "I can't…I cannot promise you that whatever this is will end happily, but I can promise you that I will try to…to be better, I suppose, for you."

John's hand slid from Sherlock's shoulder and came up his neck, resting to cup around the left side of his face. "Sherlock, I wouldn't stand you if you weren't the crazy man you are right this second. You don't need to be better for me."

Sherlock turned his face more into John's hand and his eyes slowly opened, finding the blue ones above him. "Then what? There has got to be something I can do, something that will show you that I can do this." He knew John could see the pleading look in his eyes.

John shook his head. "Sherlock," he sighed, "I don't want to make you feel like you have to do something special in order for me to stay with you, because you honestly don't. I want you just the way you are."

He leaned down further, and Sherlock tilted his face up a fraction of an inch more, making their lips brush together. Sherlock could feel his heart pounding in his chest and he distantly heard himself gasp before John sealed their mouths together firmly.

'_I'm kissing John,_' he thought hazily, his eyes shuttering closed to match John's own shut ones. And kissing, he was. It was like nothing he had ever experienced, which wasn't saying too much, but this was _John_. His John. Kissing him!

Sherlock's hands reached sideways in order to grab John's hips, and, with much effort, he succeeded in pulling him to where John was now straddling Sherlock's waist. John groaned in pleasure, and Sherlock mentally preened at knowing he was at least doing some things right.

It was obvious that John knew exactly what to do, though. Sherlock hadn't much thought about the things that the human tongue was capable of, but he was now certain that John's was the gateway to heaven. A shiver ran through his body as John swiped it across his lower lip before continuing to delve deeply in his mouth, and _oh God_, was this even legal?

He felt one of John's hands slide under his t-shirt, and his pushed up against it, wanting more, needing more..

And suddenly, John pulled back, ripping his hand hastily away from Sherlock and skittering back to the foot of the bed.

Sherlock's eyes blinked open, startled. He blearily looked at John, who was looking at him with a strange expression.

"John, what is the matt-," Sherlock cut himself off. He looked, really looked at John, and saw that the ex-soldier had tears in his eyes. Sherlock's eyebrows knit together and he narrowed his gaze, taking in the way the hand that had made its way under Sherlock's shirt just moments before was now trembling, and the way John looked absolutely at war with himself.

He knew the answer.

"You're disgusted by my body," Sherlock stated emotionlessly, propping himself up onto his elbows.

* * *

><p>John gaped at the detective.<p>

"Disgusted with you?" he choked out. Was the man kidding? John could never, ever be repulsed by Sherlock's body, even if he tattooed the whole thing, gained 500 pounds, and was waist deep in a pond of corpses. It just wasn't bloody possible.

He could see the hurt in Sherlock's eyes even though his face was cold and shut-off. John couldn't believe himself. He knew he shouldn't have reacted like that. But he couldn't help it. Feeling that pale skin against his fingers after having waited since the day they met should have been a lovely experience. But he hadn't expected to feel the hard, protruding ridges that we Sherlock's ribs. He had seen them earlier, yes, but he hadn't touched them and noticed just exactly _how far _they stuck out.

And while John was still shocked over it, he couldn't let the man think that he was disgusted by touching him.

Before Sherlock could even think of moving to flee to go sulk elsewhere, John was back on him in the time it took to blink. Both his hands came up to cup the sides of Sherlock's face.

"Stop that right now," he demanded, stroking his thumbs across Sherlock's cheekbones.

Sherlock tried in vain to wiggle out from under the doctor, but it was useless. He glared up at him and huffed, "You recoiled like I was a poisonous snake, John. There isn't much you can say that would hide that."

John sighed exasperatedly and leaned down to ghost his lips against Sherlock's once, feeling relieved when he felt some of the Sherlock's tension fade away. "Sherlock, no, you git. I am _not_ disgusted by you, alright? Never, ever think that. It's just…" He trailed off, not knowing exactly how to put it into words.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "It's just what?"

The doctor let his hands fall from Sherlock's face and take up both of his hands.

"You are gorgeous, Sherlock. Absolutely, utterly gorgeous. You must know that every time I look at you, and if you don't, you're a bit more daft than I could have thought. But Sherlock…" He sighed again and tightened his hands around his detective's, "You're about as thin as a rail. The way your bones are sticking out…it's dangerous, Sherlock. It's more than a bit not good. I reacted so strongly because, well, it surprised me. You seem so fragile. So breakable. And I won't let myself…break you." He finished in a whisper, his eyes searching the man's face below for some kind of reassurance.

He could have cried out in relief when Sherlock's eyes softened, but he waited for him to speak.

When he finally did, John winced at how absolutely hopeless Sherlock's voice sounded.

"What would you suggest I do?" he asked, brokenly, staring at their entwined hands.

John gently pulled one of his hands away from Sherlock's, and used it to tilt his detective's chin up in order to look into his eyes.

"Let me help you," he murmured, before letting his eyes close and once again finding Sherlock's mouth with his own.


	6. Chapter 6

**It's too short, I know, and too quick! But enjoy!**

* * *

><p>The next day found the two at a crime scene involving the murders of a young couple. The mother of the girlfriend had found the two on the roof when she was going to call them back inside for dinner. Apparently the boy and girl were having problems before their untimely deaths, but the detective knew they were not suicides, like the Met seemed to think.<p>

"That's what the killer wants you to see, you imbecile!" He spat at Anderson, who was astonishing him with how absolutely stupid he could be over something so simple. What was wrong with everyone today? It seemed as if he was the only one in the world who could recognize that the angle of the gun-shot wound was completely wrong to be one of a suicide.

John was standing to the side warily, watching as the detective stalked around the crime scene. It was obvious that Sherlock was putting everyone on edge, and John was honestly surprised that no one had tried to throw a punch at him yet. He was being a bit more intense than his usual self. John felt like he was putting too much attention on him, though. But how was he expected to take his eyes off the man after last night? He pretended to be preoccupied with examining the young girl's hand, but then a commotion from across the roof top made him turn. Sherlock had made a young officer burst into tears.

John quickly rushed over to the two, where Sherlock was viciously rattling off the descriptions of people that the officer's boyfriend had recently slept with, grabbed his arm, and jerked him roughly away from the poor girl.

"Sherlock!" he hissed. "You can't just say things like that! It's a bit not good!" Really, he knew Sherlock sometimes said things like this, but recently he hadn't done it too often, and John thought he was getting better. Apparently, he was wrong.

Sherlock turned to him and realized just how pissed John was at him. But he didn't care. His head was aching and his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. How was he expected to solve a crime if every step felt like a ton of concrete was on his shoulders? His eyes narrowed, and as he was just about to tear John to pieces for interrupting him (_his John, he shouldn't say such things to him because he loved him_), he felt his legs give out underneath him.

His vision swam, and he blinked rapidly. There were now three Johns instead of one.

"John," he stated, still fluttering his eyes. "I didn't know you were a triplet."

And then the detective fainted.

John was still holding onto Sherlock's arm when he passed out, so he didn't let him fall to the ground, but instead gently lowered him until he was lying on the roof top. John's heart was pounding in his chest. The delirious look in Sherlock's eyes before he passed out worried him to the extreme. Why didn't the detective tell him that he wasn't feeling well?

'_Because he couldn't stand to not take this case,' _John thought, rolling his eyes. Of course Sherlock wouldn't tell him. He wouldn't let anything stand in the way of his work, especially not his own health. And John had to help him with that, because it was beginning to get out of hand.

Lestrade jogged over to where John was crouching over Sherlock's body. "Oi, what happened to him?"

John sighed and tilted his head up to look at the detective inspector. "I guess he isn't feeling well. He just passed out. That'd explain why he's acting like such a drama queen today."

Lestrade laughed and ran a hand through his hair. John could see the worried look in his eye, and was going to ask what was bothering him, when Lestrade quietly asked, "You don't think it's drugs, do you?"

John shook his head. Drugs weren't an option. He knew Sherlock was clean because he was with him almost 24/7. But he could understand Lestrade's concern. He had known Sherlock long before John had, and it wouldn't do to have someone high off of cocaine barking insults at police officers. He also knew that Lestrade was worried because he was one of the few people who actually cared about the detective's wellbeing.

"I guess I should take him back to the flat," John said, sighing at the thought of carrying his flat mate's body down the two flights of stairs that it took to get up to the roof. Not that Sherlock was heavy; he never fucking ate anything.

It hit John like a ton of bricks.

_Of course._

Sherlock passed out because he hadn't eaten since John had convinced him to consume that yogurt yesterday afternoon. And they had rushed out the door so early that John hadn't had time to bribe Sherlock into eating anything, so he had been running on empty. John could have hit himself. How was he supposed to help Sherlock if he kept forgetting?

He pressed his lips together tightly and scooped Sherlock off the ground, again pushing from his mind how ridiculously light he was. This was unacceptable. John would help him. He would. He bid Lestrade goodbye and tried to ignore the looks he got from most of the officers as he carried his friend through the house and outside to get a cab.

The ride home was uneventful, and John was slowly growing more and more worried because Sherlock had still yet to wake up. He hadn't even thought to take him to the hospital, but he knew Sherlock would have woken up extremely angry if John had taken him there, so maybe he had done the right thing after all.

When the reached 221B, John paid the driver and gently extracted Sherlock from the cab. He had a bit of difficulty opening the front door while supporting Sherlock, but he managed. Getting him up the stairs was easy, at least. John placed him on the sofa and set about to make tea for the both of them, hoping Sherlock would wake up sometime soon before John went into cardiac arrest over worrying about him.

While he waited, he had time to ponder what had transpired the night before. Not like he needed to think about it at all. Although the last thing he had expected Sherlock to admit to was being in love with him, he knew all along that that's what he really wanted to hear. He had dated all those women just to get Sherlock to be jealous, and it was obvious that he had been jealous indeed, but John had just marked it as Sherlock being upset that John wasn't there as often to stand in for his skull. He never considered in a thousand years that Sherlock returned his feelings. It seemed like a dream come true.

That sounded so soppy of him, but he couldn't help it. Coming back from Afghanistan, he never looked toward the future. He tried to block all the thoughts of what was to come from his mind, because without the rush, without the danger, he was nothing. To be honest, John couldn't convince himself that he even wanted to live without the army. It was more to him than just protecting his country. It was honestly his everything. And having that ripped from his grip made his head spin. He had sat on his dull beige bed in his dull beige, tiny flat, and he had stared at his gun every night for weeks in a row. John always told himself that he never actually would have done it, but he knew he would have. He really would have. If it hadn't been for Sherlock.

Sherlock came into his life when everything else was blurring to nothing.

And then everything was so _right_. The chasing criminals through the streets, the laughter that filled the cab after a crazy case, the telling Sherlock off because he was being a bit not good to a client, the ridiculous leaps Sherlock could make from something as simple as a loose thread on a shirt, the energy that would strike when Sherlock had just got a lead on a suspect, Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_.

The detective was his entire world now. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

Sherlock groaned. His eye lids felt like they were glued shut, and his head was pounding. He tried to lift his arms up in order to rub at his eyes, but he found that he wasn't exactly strong enough to do so. He huffed out a sigh and feebly called for his flat mate.

"John..?"

He heard John's quick footsteps and lifted his hand out in the direction of the sound. He didn't like being without his senses. Those were the things he could always count on. Well, sometimes. Not today, obviously.

He felt John's fingers intertwine with his and he exhaled in relief. He could feel John. He was okay.

Sherlock finally cracked an eye open and squinted up at his doctor. "What happened?" he questioned, his words slurring together slightly. All he remembered was snarling at some stupid girl and John yelling at him, but after that, he hadn't a clue.

John breathed in deeply before replying. "You passed out at the crime scene. I had to carry you off the scene and bring you back here. Lestrade suspected drugs, but I knew it wasn't because I would have noticed immediately. I know why you passed out, Sherlock. Do you?"

John's voice was filled with a sadness that Sherlock couldn't even begin to comprehend. It made him screw his eyes shut again at just hearing it. He had disappointed John. His John. Oh, how he hated it.

"It's because I didn't eat, of course I know why," Sherlock said, sounding a bit more upset than he would have liked. "I forgot to eat, and you didn't say anything about it, so I don't see why you're giving me that look."

He could feel John stiffen, and he knew he had said the wrong thing. Now John would blame himself for Sherlock fainting, when it wasn't his fault at all. Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes to look at his flat mate. The hard look on John's face filled him with despair.

He sat up quickly, ignoring how his head spun at the action, and wrapped his arms tightly around John's waist, pressing his face into John's stomach. He felt John's hands hesitantly come up and rest on his shoulders, but Sherlock could feel that he was still tense.

"I don't want you to think that it was your fault, John. It wasn't, don't be an idiot," Sherlock cringed as the words spilled out, but he didn't know how else to explain that it wasn't John's doing that caused him to faint. "You shouldn't have to be responsible for my welfare, yet you insist upon it because I don't really care about it myself. But…I can't…I can't help it, John. I really don't care whether I live or die. I don't want to eat, ever. I don't want it. I'll never want it. And I don't know what to do, because you care so much about me, and I don't."

Sherlock could feel John's fingers tightening the entire time he was speaking, and now they were gripping him hard enough to bruise. He didn't want to look up at him and see how angry he would be, didn't want to see the hurt in his eyes that he knew would be there.

He was surprised when John suddenly released him, and he was even more startled when John's hand slid from his shoulder to cup his chin, tilting his head up to make the detective's eyes meet the doctor's.

John's eyes were filled with warmth, not hurt. And, if Sherlock wasn't mistaken, which, damn him, he seemed to be more and more wrong recently, they were filled with love?

John leaned down slowly and gently pressed his lips to Sherlock's. Sherlock's lips trembled beneath John's, and John's hand moved to card his hand through his flat mate's unruly, black hair, reassuring him with his touch.

Sherlock's mind was moving sluggishly, trying to comprehend how John wasn't mad at him. He didn't, couldn't understand. John was still a complete mystery to him, even after all this time.

But, he wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
